


Not the kind you save.

by Takari



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: PTSD, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, allusions to torture, rewrite of the helicarrier fight with more feelings, whoops drunk cap2 feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takari/pseuds/Takari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America doesn't leave anyone behind. And Steve Rogers is a man out of time that has finally found one person with "shared life experience". And he'll be damned if he's going to leave him behind.</p><p>The Winter Soldier is dazed. Nothing make sense anymore. Bucky is clawing his way towards any scrap of humanity that he can cling to. And Steve...Steve is every bit of humanity he wants to have again. </p><p>Or, the one where Steve and Bucky are both terribly lost and broken, but a little less lost once they find each other again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The cliché of falling apart

Everything was falling apart. No, literally. It was all coming down. Basically, any cliché you could think of that described falling things; that was this moment.

The Soldier’s eyes watched Captain America gasp for air above, each breath strained and painfully as the symbol of America collapsed on the metal structure. The helicarrier was breaking apart, destroyed by its own system. How fitting. The Soldier was still sitting on the metal beams, heart trying desperately to get oxygen back to the brain after the little bout of unconsciousness due to the vice grip that has been Captain America’s arm around the Soldier’s neck. His flesh arm hanging limply by his side, the Soldier pulled himself up into a sitting position, only to be pushed right back down by a steel girder. 

His metal arm was pinned down, his flesh arm dislocated and useless. The steel was trying it’s hardest to push every bit of air out of his lungs. The Soldier’s mind went through a dozen calculated ways to escape. Bucky panicked. That panic went straight to his eyes, as they widened and darted around the collapsing machinery, looking for something, anything.

That something is draped in red, white and blue, more red than is on the god-damn flag, because Captain America has been shot and he’s bleeding and should be doing anything that is not lifting fallen steel off the Winter Soldier, man who shot him.  

Not the Winter Soldier. Bucky. He was always Bucky, to Steve. Not Sargent James Buchannan Barnes, the only Commando to ever give his life in service of his country.  Not the asset with a metal arm and a mind only made for the mission, the kill. He was Bucky, the man with slicked back hair, handing Steve the key to his apartment as he begged him to stay at his. _We can put the couch cushions down, like when we’re kids_. He was Bucky, who kept him alive with a sniper rifle, who followed that little guy from Brooklyn into the ravages of war. The friend that wouldn’t leave him to escape a burning HYDRA base. Not an enemy. Never an enemy.

He was free. The Soldier squirmed away from the confines of the metal, reorienting himself as quickly as possible. Captain America. Steve Rogers. Mission. Kill. But he’s not killing. Not moving. He’s staring at nothing. He glances up towards his target. He catches a glimpse of bright, bright blue eyes and—

“You know me.”

Something snaps. His head pounds.  It _huuurts_. Every instinct in his body screams that he is vulnerable. So, he attacks, like an animal, not a trained assassin.

“No, I don’t!” The Soldier yells. Maybe if he yells it loud enough, yells it out so the whole world can hear, it will be true. He doesn’t want it to hurt anymore. No more wipes.  No more clenching, screaming, electricity coursing through every molecule of his enhanced body. Remembering would hurt too much. He didn’t know the man on the bridge, the man standing before him. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t! He lunges.

“Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life.” The man has so much conviction in his voice. How can he believe such an obvious lie so completely? The Soldier does not _know_ people. The Soldier is an asset. The asset.  Assets don’t have lives. They have purpose. His is to complete his mission. Take out the target. Who is the target? The target is Captain America, _the star spangled man with a plan_. That last part wasn’t part of his mission briefing. Why is the target not dead? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. _Yes you do._ His head pounds.  
                The only reason his wildly thrown fist connects is because Captain America is injured. Super soldier or not, he’s not in a state where moving quickly is an option.

Skin and flesh give way, and Bucky can feel the bone under the Captain’s check shifting. It’s not broken. It should be. The Soldier is not human, but neither is the Captain, strictly speaking. But he kept a piece of humanity. Bucky had it ripped away, and when he tried to grab it, to hold onto it tightly, they would dig into him harder. Humanity was wiped from James Buchannan Barnes and the Winter Soldier rose and picked up his rifle.

“Your name is James Buchannan Barnes.” There it is. That name. It makes his head pound again. He pulls his elbow back, punches forward with uncontained fury. What is he furious about? He’s not sure about anything anymore. But he always knows how to hurt.

“SHUT UP!” The Soldier screams. Or maybe it’s Bucky. Maybe they are one and the same or nothing at all or maybe their head hurts so badly that the whole world is spinning and falling and there is only the mission, but no there is the blonde man in front of him.  Why won’t he be quiet? The soft rumbles of his voice send sparks through the Soldier’s brain. It hurts and he is confused. It’s not supposed to hurt right now. Why won’t it stop?

Captain America walked into the fight. But Project Insight has been stopped. Now, it’s just Steve Rogers and his friend. His oldest friend. After every blow, all he can see is his friend. It’s Steve that reaches up to unbuckle his helmet, tossing it onto the ground. It’s definitely Steve that throws his shield down, hardly noticing when it drops off the helicarrier to plunge into the depths of the river below. The symbol of Captain America is falling into the icy water, and only Steve is left, bleeding out with debris crashing down around him. It’s all falling apart, and all that’s left is Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. The way it’s always been.

“I’m not going to fight you. You’re my friend,” Steve says, trying to make his voice drip with the years, the years spent watching out for each other, the years spent living together, the years of Steve and Bucky. Always Steve and Bucky.  Till the end of the goddamn line.

The Winter Soldier pushes Steve to the ground that is not ground. It’s glass, and it’s going to break apart sooner rather than later, but neither of the two men are thinking about that. Captain America is flat on his back, and the Soldier is poised above him, fist raised and ready.

“You’re my mission!” And his fist falls. Again and again.

“You’re my mission!” Captain America’s face is bloody and battered. But he still wheezes out a breath, manages to suck some air back in. He is still alive. The mission is not finished.

“Then finish it,” the bloody face whispers, eyes so close to being swollen shut. In that moment, Captain America, _Captain fucking America_ looks so vulnerable. So fragile and breakable, so everything he never let show.

The Winter Soldier pulled his fist back and blinks.  Seared into the back of his eyelids, a small blonde boy coughed.  A small sick boy, with only one person left in the world. Bucky’s eyes widened. What had he done? _What had he done_? Everything was blood and fear and memories and the superhero underneath him kept turning into the coughing blonde boy and he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.

“’cause I’m with you, till the end of the line,” Steve says, his voice barely able to function. His face hurt, everything hurt. But this was for Bucky, all for Bucky. And everything hurt more without Bucky.

The glass beneath them finally gave way. Steve fell, too tired to try to escape this. The Soldier’s instincts reacted before his mind, and he found himself clinging to the metal framework that had yet to give out. He watched as the red, white and blue body fell down, down, down. Steve closed his eyes. He was going to die here. He didn’t mind, not really. Sure, there was so much more to be done. But if he couldn’t save his best friend one more time, what was the point?

 _I knew him._ The Soldier felt panic well up in his bones. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The asset didn’t panic. But this man, Captain America— _no, no, Steve, he just knew that was his name_ —wasn’t supposed to die. He didn’t want him to die. His eyes followed the body as it fell. It didn’t look like Steve was making any attempt to preserve himself. _Typical_ , something inside him whispered.

So he dives. Because this man is not supposed to die, and damn it, he seemed determined to. A drop from that height is no small thing, but he ignores it. Where is Steve?

 _Goddamn idiot_ , Bucky thinks as he drags the heavy body to shore. He still has only one fully functional arm, and he’s still not sure why he’s dragging this deadweight anyway. But every molecule, every atom, is screaming that Steve has to live. No reprogramming, no torture, no electricity coursing through every neuron could erase that one base instinct. Protect Steve.

They reach the shore. The Soldier stares at Steve for a moment. Was it too late? Did he fail at this as well?

Steve draws in a shuddery breath. The Soldier contemplates. Should he run, find a safe place and rock himself to unconsciousness in a corner, rifle gripped tightly in one hand, knife in the other? Or should he stay? What would happen if he stayed? Would he be forced onto another leash (his head pounds at the thought)?

The noise of a helicopter’s blades cut through the sounds of wreckage and explosions. The decision is made. The Winter Soldier walks into the plant life, making no effort to cover his tracks. They’ll know who saved Steve Rogers. They’ll know it was the scrap of Bucky Barnes, screaming and clawing his way through years and years and years of conditioning and torture and freezing and wiping and killing. Humanity isn’t erased so easily.


	2. It's Trouble, Man

Sam Wilson sat in a chair. It was one of those chairs that seemed like it was made to be uncomfortable. With a hard plastic back that curves in exactly the wrong place, so that the curve of your back never fits the curve of the chair unless sitting up ramrod straight. It had arms, in an attempt to make the user more comfortable, but the arms where worn with the worried hands of mothers, the scratches from the fingernails of a frantic lover. Sam Wilson was neither of those. Really, he should have left long ago. But, the idiot on his right wouldn’t have left him in the situation, Sam knows he wouldn’t. So he stayed.  
Hours ticked by. Sam tried scrolling through his phone, but everything was just another reminder of why he was sitting in this chair in the first place, slowly ruining his back and every sense of good posture his mother had yelled at him about at the dinner table. SHIELD falls to pieces, one headline read. HYDRA; the monster growing since the beginning, read another that had been shared enough times on Facebook to show up on Sam’s newfeed. Most of the news pieces mentioned a lack of transparency, corruption, calls for the restructuring of the US intelligence community, etcetera, etcetera. It didn’t take long for Sam to grow tired of it all. Truthfully, he had been tired of it all before it even started. The world had suddenly found itself with too much new information, and a very different sense of the danger they lived it. Setting his phone down, he glanced to his right, where the symbol of America was breathing slowly and deeply, a heart monitor filling the otherwise silent room with a deep beep, beeeep, beeeep. Sam wishes he wasn’t so familiar with the steady beep of a heart monitor, that the constant sound didn’t quell the panic that is always there, threatening to rise into his chest and throat, until his whole brain is screaming at him to do something.  


But he’s been here enough to know there is nothing to do. Just sit and wait in the uncomfortable chairs, eyes sliding closed before fluttering back open. This might be Captain Fucking America, but getting shot in the gut that many times isn’t an easy recovery for anyone.  


Picking up his abandoned phone, he scrolled through the music selection, fingers swiping up, up, up until “M” appeared at the top of the screen. “Marvin Gaye” he selected, only needing to scroll down briefly before finding what he was seeking. Trouble Man. Sam’s finger shook for a moment as he hit the “shuffle” button, with more force than was needed for the phone to respond. The first strains of jazz filled the air as Sam stood up, his legs shaky from being in the same position for so long. He stretched and rolled, his whole body protesting the movements he was requesting. Walking in easy strides across the room, he placed the phone into the compatible speaker. A moment of silence from the device, in which the beep beeep of the heart monitor filled the air. Then the music resumed. And Sam resumed his watch, letting his back slump into the seat. He let the familiar notes lift him away, grabbed on them as they floated through the room, and tried to forget, even if just for a moment. But for guys like him, and Steve and fucking Bucky, there is no forgetting, not that easily.  


The space of time between when Steve wakes and Sam putting the Trouble Man soundtrack on an infinite loop could not be measured in hours or minutes or seconds. It was measured in breaths, the hospital staff busing themselves, the soft crones of an instrument floating through the air yet again. Then, as Sam’s eyes threatened to close, to sink into the sweet nothing that is sleep when the exhaustion has gone to your bones, a voice cut through the music.

“On your left,” Steve Rogers said, his voice barely above a whisper. If he was to approximate, he would say he felt approximately like he’d been run over by a semi-truck. A really heavy semi; maybe filled with blocks of lead. And then someone had dropped the blocks of lead on his face. Repeatedly. The serum can do a lot of great things, but the pain wasn’t exactly lessened by it. Steve was just the same broken, head-strong, stupid boy from Brooklyn who got into too many fights and had a list of aliments taller than he was. That sort of headstrong personality, the tolerance for pain that had been part of his everyday life, the serum had no problem exemplifying those properties. Steve still hurt like any other person. And three bullets to the gut were no small matter to anyone, not even the quintessential American superhero. But through the pain, Steve managed a small, barely-there smile, directed at the black man on his left. His friend.  


At this point, Sam was exhausted. Even his too-soft, marshmellow-like bed was calling to him at this point. His eyes kept threatening to close, but he managed to keep them open enough to glance at Cap, to see the small smile, the grin in those blue eyes, and hear that stupid comment. If he hadn’t been seconds from toppling onto to floor into blessed sleep, he would have snorted at the quip.  


“Glad to have you back,” Sam Wilson said quietly. Because it was good to have the Captain back. When the chopper hadn’t been able to get a location on Steve, all of them had assumed the worst, but said nothing. Natasha had opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Fury had pressed his lips together; Hill had done the same, her eyes darting around the sky, as if the clouds held the key to Steve’s fate. And Sam, well, for Sam, he had a flashback to standing opposite the Captain on a bridge, the words he said.  


“Whoever he is now, I don’t think he’s the kind of guy you save. He’s the kind you stop”. It had been harsh. But in that moment, Sam had thought that maybe harsh would get through to Steve. Now, he could say with a fair amount of certainty, that there was absolutely nothing in the world that could have gotten through to Steve in that moment. Steve hadn’t just found Bucky when he fought him on the highway. He had finally found something familiar, something truly worth fighting for in this strange new world he’d been thrust into. And while Steve would fight to the death for freedom, for his values, because that was the sort of person he was, that was why he was Captain America, fighting for Bucky was different. Bucky was his best friend, his constant companion, the only reason Steve had ended up in the field at all. He had disobeyed direct orders because he couldn’t simply leave Bucky to his fate. 70 years in ice later, that hadn’t changed. Steve Rogers would always go above and beyond for Bucky Barnes, no matter what the cost. The cost didn’t even factor in to the equation. Because it was Bucky, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, worth more to Steve than James Buchannan Barnes. It was selfish in a way. But really, with all the selflessness that seemed to define Steve Rogers, it was only fair for him to prioritize his best friend.  


Even though Steve’s heart had hurt every time he’d had to punch, hit, kick, choke Bucky, he’d still done it. When every molecule of his body had been crying for him to stop, because Steve just isn’t wired for turning on his friend, he’d done it. But only because the rest of the world had been at risk; at risk of falling into chaos, into destruction, into terror. Once the mission was finished, Steve didn’t care at all about himself. All his focus had been on Bucky. He couldn’t fight the Winter Soldier like an enemy, because it was Bucky. Broken in who knows how many ways, it was still Bucky, and Steve wasn’t the type for giving up.  


Still, Sam wanted to yell at him for his foolishness. And they would certainly be having a conversation about Steve’s actions on the helicarrier. It might get loud. Sam knew what it was like to lose a friend, a best friend, to war. It didn’t put you in the best state of mind, to say the least. Steve did crash a plane in to the Artic, intending to die, only a few days after Bucky’s death. Sam could only imagine the strange collection of feelings that must have been overwhelming the super-soldier at finding out that his best friend that he mourned for and missed like hell, whose death he had finally accepted as being final, was actually alive. Alive and brainwashed. Sam shook his head slightly. He really couldn’t blame Steve for the way he’d gone about things. Clearly the man didn’t have any sense of self-preservation—history proved that. And clearly he was a stubborn bastard, as stubborn as they come. That didn’t make his practically suicidal way of “fighting” the Winter Solider any less concerning. Sam was the type for being concerned.  


“How long’ve I been out?” Steve said, words mumbled and smashed together like he was, well, smashed. His head was tilted towards Sam, but his eyes were mostly closed. It was easier to keep them closed.  


“ ’bout a day,” Sam replied, trying desperately to say in the conversation and not wander into dreamland. It was working. Barely.  


Steve turned his head a little more, and opened his blue eyes to slits to look at Sam. Really look at him. The other man was definitely beaten and bruised, but really didn’t look too worse for the wear, all things considered. Steve cringed. Tilting his head that much hurt. It felt like every muscle in his body was pulled in all directions with the smallest movement. And there was a fantastic bruise that clearly covered most of the left side of his face, because resting his check against the scratchy hospital pillow hurt like someone was taking a blunt butter knife and just pressing the edge into his skin.  


“ ‘Tasha?” he rasped out.  


“She’s okay,” Sam assured him. Out of all of them, Natasha truly had gotten away with the least injuries, physically at least. She’d also arguably lost the most. Her cover was blown. All of them. Who was she now? Sam certainly didn’t know, and she doubted she did either. Troubleman crooned on in the background in the moment of silence as and Steve appreciated the incredibly amount of luck they all possessed, that they had all made it out of this fiasco alive, even if it was just barely for some of them.  


Steve wasn't sure what question to ask next. His head hurt. He couldn't think. Probably a concussion, stupid, a voice in his mind whispered. It sounded rather like Bucky, unsurprisingly. Bucky was always the first person to call him out on his rather poor decisions, something most people were rather unwilling to do to Captain America. Sam was probably the closest that Steve had found in this new century. Maybe Natasha too. It had become so hard for people to see past the costumed hero and see the person. Even Steve wasn't quite sure where one ended and the other began anymore. The hero took orders, lead the Avengers, saved the world. The man, the man just was. The man out of time. Perhaps sad, a little lonely, more than a little lost. If SHIELD was dead, what was the man supposed to do? Where was Steve supposed to head with his life? If he'd had no direction before, he had even less now. He couldn't even pretend to throw himself back into a life of service now. The world was in chaos, and he was right at the center.  


He turned his head again, so that he was looking straight at the ceiling. The white tiles swam before his eyes, the seams between them shrinking and growing and moving. It was too confusing. So he closed his eyes.  


“Tired,” he breathed out. “So...tired”. And then he slept, Sam quietly dozing off next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: At least half of this was written on a Saturday night, in an interesting state of mind. It's unbeta'd, the overall plot for the rest of this is spotty at best, but it's going to happen. In between three jobs, research and a buttload of STEM classes, it's going to happen, because I have too many feelings about this damn movie.


End file.
